Some Peace And Quiet
by MuddyWolf
Summary: After the demise of Father, humans rule the world. All seems to be right with Amestris. But in Drachma, an ambitious alchemist seeks to master the secrets of human transmutation... Revised version. Selim finally enters!
1. Chapter 1

1

The scrape of shovels against the dirt wrecked the soil in rushed motions. An exchange of whispers in a foreign tongue, hissed orders, the metal tools digging in that much more of a hurry.

The moon was absent for their purposes. A single, dim lantern lit their work.

_"Faster,"_ one of the dark shapes commanded in a sibilant hiss. The shovels gouged into the earth faster, each "churnk" overlapping each other as the two bigger shapes dug up the earth, sinking into the pit as they unearthed.

A semi-hollow bump coinciding with another grunt of exertion, another exhale, and then a muted, exhausted sigh of relief.

_"What are you waiting for? Get it up here!"_

The two giant shapes got on either side of the box and hefted it up, straining and swearing under the weight of the box.

_"Heavy for southern dog—"_

_"No gold lining on coffin, neither—_Rghh..!" Lift, lift… "These Amestrians say they rich. They not rich-nnnnff!" one of them scoffed, tugging sharply on his end, thunking one side of the box above ground.

The other one, pressing his giant shoulders back against the box, got the whole thing onto the grass. The other shadowed figure, the one standing above flashed a thin smile, visible by the dim lantern light.

_"Your country thanks you."_

Before the gravediggers knew what was happening, a flash of light crackled from an array carved into the ground, the soft, dug-up earth becoming rigid and converging over their heads in a rumble. The men's whispers became frantic, desperate yelling, as they pounded on the earth that had sealed, a hard, impenetrable earthen wall.

The thin-lipped man smiled, and he made a motion for several more men to pry open the box, and as he turned around, the dim light of the lantern illuminated the elaborate, stately tombstone that now marked the invariable resting place of the hapless gravediggers, pounding away uselessly and desperately at the earthen ceiling:

King Bradley

1854-1914


	2. Chapter 2

2

_"So, this is the late leader of the southern roaches." _

The unsmiling eyes of the senior chair of the Drachman council looked upon the few-months old corpse of the Amestrian head of state, the supreme dictator of the tiny, surprisingly resilient country to the south. _"I'm not impressed._" The other council members, sitting recessed from the center, murmured in agreement with the senior chair. Some of the frailer ones upturned their noses at the corpse-which had died during spring-and had plenty of time to rot during the summer.

The alchemist, standing behind the white-haired corpse, laid out on the table, was unfazed.

The senior chair curled and bunched his lip in distrust at the alchemist. Alchemists were an odd outlier in this area-one in every thousand Drachmans might be an alchemist, stealing and imitating the alchemical secrets from the south to use for their own military, with no success. It was dangerous magic as he was concerned-and he was furious at the alchemist, a disreputable and unstable man to begin with, to even consider it. The senior chair stood up from his seat, thwacking his feathered hat on the table. _"Take this filth out of the Assembly Hall. I sent you as an envoy to bring me back an army, and you bring me back a dead man!"_

The alchemist bowed and obeyed, taking the senior chair's scolding with appropriate submission, and wheeled the dead man out of the Assembly Hall on the gurney, passing through the guarded great doors that opened in front of him and then closed with a thunderous boom, those doors that shielded the rest of Drachma from burdensome policy decisions and tedious affairs of state.

An official who scurried out of one of the corridors trailed after the alchemist and his corpse as soon as the doors closed.

_"D-did the council approve the transmutation?"_

_"No." _the thin-lipped man answered. _"But it does not matter. We will go on with or without the approval of the council,"_ the alchemist announced._ "Is the preparer of ingredients ready?"_

The official, a ratty sort of man, squeaked as he tugged at his collar,

_"He is...And is waiting for your signal..!"_


	3. Chapter 3

3

A row of shackled men in rags were shoved into the cramped, foul-smelling room. Their hollow, sagging eyes looked around vacantly, dry, cracked mouths gaping at the pile of-something in the middle. On the ground, drawn in chalk, were lines making a circle. On the something-lay a dead body. One of the prisoners backed away, dragging his fellows with him by their shared chain.

The alchemist waited outside, ignoring the sounds of shrieks and cries of terror as his man's knife collected the ingredients-or no-the toll, rather. Better to pay the toll with someone else's blood than your own.

The door opened and a hooded figure flowed out.

_"Everything is ready,"_ he bowed to the alchemist, letting him and the ratty official in. The man with the knife then left, snatching a bit of silver from the alchemist before disappearing into the hallway.

In through the door stepped the alchemist, walking over the corpses of the dead prisoners that formed the arcs of the circle. The official paled at the sight, but scurried along, peering at the whole strange experiment with wide eyes. On top of the pile of -what looked like dirt, was the corpse that the alchemist had wheeled out of the Great Doors earlier.

The alchemist kneeled in the fresh blood and touched his hands to the array, a burst of flashing energy flooding the death-reeking room with light as a giant hole opened up in the circle, swallowing the dead men's bodies, soaking up the blood. The official hid behind the alchemist in terror at what he was seeing-this was the devil's work-it had to be-

He whimpered out a prayer as the hole vanished, the light subsided-in its place, was the corpse still-but in addition, was a-

_"Wh-what is that monster?"_

The alchemist's lips curled into a smile.

_"That is no monster. This is a gift from the gods- and what we will use to restore Drachma to its former glory."_

The thing in question was a slimy, formless creature, with glowing eyes and a grasping limb, sloshing in dark blood, squishing to reach a life source-something to eat.

"Saaaaaahhhhh..."

The prettily-robed official jumped, and pressed himself up against the wall, cowering. The alchemist removed many red things from a satchel attached to his belt and threw them at the dark, red-eyed slime. The slime slid off of the floor, and with jerky, halting movements, sunk its teeth into the red things, gnashing them in its maw. The alchemist threw more and more of the red pebbles, which the creature continued to eat. And as it continued to eat, the official felt he was going to be sick or void his bowels-whichever came first-as the monster grew bones, organs, muscle-it was becoming-formed-it was beoming-

_"Human..?"_ the official eeped.

_"Not quite. His kind is what the southerners call a little human."_

_"..Little?"_

The creature, now naked, looked like an adult man-large in stature, with well-defined muscles in limbs, chest, neck, and back, a strong abdomen, a well-kept mustache. And in shape, it looked completely-human, except for the red marks on its shoulders and back, and its violet eye color on one side and strange eye with a red snake on it.

_"Eat more,"_ the alchemist commanded, throwing the wide-eyed creature more of the red pebbles. Now the artificial man used his hands to pick up the red things as if by instinct, and shoveled them into his mouth noisily, still hungry. Clothes-a leather-looking shirt, overalls, and military trousers covered his body. Now fully-clothed-

He started to crawl around on his knees and hands.

_"Is-there something wrong with it?"_ asked the official, nervously, still couched in his hiding place near the door.

_"No-it is newborn. See how he touches his hair."_

The man jabbed his finger in his mouth, and took it out, looking at it. He felt at his clothes, pulled his hands through his short hair, messing it up, poking his own strange eye and growling because it hurt.

_"You said it's a little human-But has it no human speech?"_

The alchemist was not certain, so went up to his creation, towering above it.

_"Greetings."_

"Grrrrrrrrr..."

The official rubbed the back of his head lightly with his hand in growing anxiety.

_"Your creature cannot even communicate!"_

_"Be patient! it is learning its letters.."_ The alchemist addressed the creature again, drawing out the word. _"Grrrrrrrrrrrr...Eeeeeeee...Ttttttuuhhh...iiiii...nnnnn...ggggg...ssss."_

"Grrrrrrrrrrr...vvvvvvvv...ooooorrrrrr..."

The official fret.

_"Wh-what is it saying?..!"_

The alchemist put a hand to his ear and listened to the little human.

_"It-it's saying the Amestrian rendering of our word for greetings..!"_

_"How can that be..?"_

_"I-I don't know. But he is fascinating."_ The alchemist crouched down, raising a finger pointedly in the air. _"I have decided! I will not give the little human to the Drachman Council. I will keep him here and raise him as my son!"_

_"B-but-what about the country?..!"_

_"The country can go to the devil,"_ the alchemist said cheerfully, rather manically, waving a hand as he bustled about getting a broom and washing the chalk off. The official gaped, jelly-nerved at this whole proceeding.

Meanwhile, the Homunculus went crawling around the room, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells-

-And then froze stiff.

_"What? What happened to it? It stopped moving? i-is it dead?"_

_"He-he must be afraid,"_ observed the alchemist. _"Of himself when he was not alive."_ He laid the mop handle against the wall, strode over to the corpse, and wrapped it up, throwing it by the door. The official, being so near the corpse, yelped and whitened. The Homunculus remained paralyzed in terror of the wrapped-up body. The alchemist took the body, opened up the door, and tossed it out, landing with a thud.

Muscle by muscle, the Homunculus began to relax, his chest rising and falling steadily in a sweaty relief. _"We must keep his body away from him. He does not like it",_ the alchemist decided. The official just nodded with whatever the other had to say. The creature imitated the official's nodding and spoke, a hoarse growl,

_"Does..not..like.."_

_H..._

_H...a..._

_H...a...t..._

_H...a...t...e_

The alchemist clasped his hands together, proud of his little human.

_"Did you hear that...? He's speaking Drachman!"_


	4. Chapter 4

4

On the other side of the Briggs mountains lay a frozen world thickly covered in snow and ice. Villages, some state-controlled and some autonomous, dotted the overwhelming countryside, separated from Drachma's three capitals, all so large they blotted out the sky.

The alchemist lived at the edge of a village shielded on three sides by one of Drachma's many mountainous chains, and this drowsy hamlet was where he took the Homunculus with him to live.

The horse pulling the carriage came to a stop in the front of the small gate, a wooden arch wedged between two long poles reading in carved letters the name of the village.

Villagers gathered in a tight cluster to greet the alchemist, their breath cloudy, visible puffs in the cold air. The same alchemist that had so many prisoners slaughtered embraced each one of his fellow villagers with warmth.

_"How was the capital?"_

_"Awful. I was caught up in the heady atmosphere of the channels of power. But no more-I have renounced politics and will live a quiet life with my village-men-and my son_," The alchemist swept a hand to encompass the creature who groped his way out of the carriage, his hands clutching the side._ "Do not fear-just step out," _the younger-looking man encouraged the creature, garbed in winter wear.

The man-looking creation slid out of the carriage door, and stumbled out into the snow. The villagers were immediately curious and flocked around the light brown man with the strange eyes, reaching out with their cold-blistered hands to touch him. The creature let out an incoherent noise of fear and scrambled away on his hands and rump, leaning against the carriage-no, it was gone, and he flopped over in the snow.

_"Why he so afraid?"_

_"Where did he come from?"_

_"I made him," _the alchemist stated, hiding nothing from his village-men-a contrast to the great-and brutal secrecy that he used in Amestrian territory._ "Using prisoners' blood I made sacrifice to the gods and brought him back to life."_

The villagers nodded as if that was the most natural thing in the world, and praised him for his efforts. Meanwhile, the children had formed a ring around the creature, touching his face, tugging on his hand.

A little girl pulled up on the creature's hand, trying to get him to stand.

_"Rrrrmm-" _the other murmured, pulling away, easily pulling the girl off balance and she fell in the snow.

_"What trying to do Liza?"_

The girl picked herself up, artlessly hitting the snow off her coat.

_"I want him stand up. Stand up, wrinkly! Wrinkly cold in snow!"_

_"We help_," the boys, their harsh and pointed features belying their warmth, grabbed onto the creature's hands and arms, pulling upwards as hard as they could. A few went around to the other's back and pushed him up. The creature, looking around, went up to his knee, shakily, and then planted one unsteady foot in the snow. More nudging and light shoving from the children. Confused, but somehow wanting what the smaller ones wanted for him, the creature focused hard and put all his weight down into the snow, pushing off and raising the weak, only recently-formed muscles to a half-stand. The children cheered.

_"Close, wrinkly! Close!"_

Wobbling near-uncontrollably, the creature, with the children's help and some strange, inexplicable resolve, managed to stand up, and the children climbed over him, staring up in joy.

_"Wrinkly so tall..." _breathed the girl, holding her palms together. In reality, the creature was not much bigger than the alchemist, but certainly more bulky. "Master Rostov, what his name?" the girl asked cheerily.

The alchemist blinked.

_"You should ask him that yourself. I can't be bothered to think of something like that_," the alchemist said dismissively. In truth he did not know what to call the creature. To give it a name would set it upon a destiny that was chosen by him—not the creature itself. So he feigned indifference.

It didn't take long for the children to fight over who would play with wrinkly first, who got to climb up on his shoulders, pelt him with snowballs. Meanwhile, the old man stared down at them, trying to piece together words and add to his own vocabulary from the high, shrill sounds that the small ones were making.

Later, the alchemist and his wife were eating at their small, round table, scraping their clay dishes in an unusually terse silence.

_"Glina, why are you so cross with me?"_

The woman put her utensil down on the table, and sighed.

_"If that monster you made by sacrificing to the gods was for the state, then why did you not hand it over to them_?" she asked in a hushed, frantic voice._ "They will come looking for it—and they will look for you."_

She sighed, rubbing her forehead into the back of her hand._ "I do not see why you changed your mind so suddenly. You occupy a high position in regional government." _Obviously, the alchemist was just joking about retirement. Besides, no one retired in _Drachma._

"_What if you show to work tomorrow and an agent from the center capital comes knocking? Why—why did you have to be reckless? Just to have a child? That is not a child. It is an old man. You should give it to them. It does not belong here." _A tense chew, and she bit her lip._ "It's a foreigner's corpse you used, isn't it?"_

_"Yes. Scrape, scrape. "One of the southern nations' leaders. The one that died in the insurgency."_

_"-An Amestrian?.." _her eyes gleamed with incredulity._ "You used an Amestrian? That's all the worse! What if you show to work tomorrow and an Amestrian envoy comes knocking? Oh, this is unbelievable..! "_

She stopped eating altogether and stood up from the table, putting a hand to her head as she left the eating place and went to bed, shutting the door.

Meanwhile, dusk settled and several womens' bellows signaled the children to stop playing and come inside. Warm odors arose from the one-story houses while the night watch started to patrol and shoo the children inside.

The alchemist wondered at her words. He had worked for years to learn the Amestrian's secrets of alchemy, to learn human transmutation and to select a perfect specimen to create a superhuman that would save Drachma. He had it planned out to the last detail, and in utmost secrecy once they crossed the Drachma-Amestrian border, planning the deaths of the gravediggers and any unnecessary elements.

He created the little human thinking that it would be a blank slate that the Drachman rulers would command.

The alchemist stepped out through the door, into the biting chill of the frozen winter.

His creation was sitting in the snow, the lanterns of the watch casting shadows on him as they passed by the strange-eyed man sitting in the snow.

_"Why are you sitting there?"_

_"Children…gone," _the creation answered in his gruff voice, softened by something, his heavy shoulders slumped as if sad, the hair of his mustache sagging.

Crunch of hide boots as the robed man approached his creature. He pondered over what his wife said. She was right. He had made that decision on a whim—to create the little human to give it over to the rulers, to the military, to crush the Amestrian dogs and anyone else that stood in the way of the great expansion of Drachma. He was not politically naïve.

But—

The would-be weapon was a child—an old child. And something in the alchemist sensed that when alive, the old child did not have a life of his own, either.

He put his hand on him. Had he been one notch crueler—and he was cruel, to _take_ lives to give life—that soft hand on the creature's shoulder would have opened a palm to reveal a tooth, a nail, something from the corpse that would terrify the creature and prevent him from moving, while he handed him to the capital's officials.

But instead-

_"Why don't you come inside. It is cold."_


	5. Chapter 5

5

The gray dawn, silent, broke over the sprawling mountains, stirring sleeping heads huddled under woolen blankets, sending the people of the Drachman village to work, the children to school, with the ringing of the old bell in the middle of the village. Its sound was dampened until the previous day's snowfall was brushed off, and then it emitted a clear ringing that could be heard throughout, all the way to the edge of the village where the alchemist and his wife lived.

The Homunculus let his eyes open slowly, having fallen asleep next to the door. His back, still in the warm coat that he was given, was pressed up against the wall. The eye he had been born with roved incessantly around the one-story building, seeing every ash in the fire pit that had burned out from last night, every grain in the wood in the wall and floor, around the corner to the locked door of a room in the back of the house. That was where the one who had created him kept his food—the red things that had given him shape and the ability to speak. There were other things behind it, materials and things that didn't concern him. His eye wandered around the other corner, where the one who gave him life and the woman with him- they already up and about.

The house was alive with activity as the man dressed and the woman readied something to eat for the two of them. They were both in a rush, they must do this everyday.

_"How is my son?"_ the creator asked him. The Homunculus raised his head at being addressed.

_"I wish you don't call him our 'son'. He is old enough to be your father,"_ grumbled the woman, standing and scraping food from a pot onto the plates they used from before. _"Why does he stare at us like that?"_

_"He is still a newborn. He may look old, but he is still learning many things."_ He motioned to the Homunculus. _"Come eat with us."_

The old man got up off the floor, a lot steadier from before. A lot was different from before. It was as if his mind had grown up ten years within a day. The two were all in a rush, and the second the woman finished eating she went back to scurrying around. He wondered when he'd get to see the children again.

The alchemist gave his bowl to him and the Homunculus ate—this was just as good as the red things that he ate, and filled him up more.

_"Is he eating..?"_ The woman came back, staring. "_Now he can truly live with us, because he is a living man that eats."_

The Homunculus stared in confusion while he scarfed down the food, not bothering to not get it on his mustache. His robed creator tapped him on the shoulder, whispering with a conspiratory smile, with his thin lips,

_"She approves of you."_

He set down his bowl and with a wave, hurried out of the door to board the carriage. Outside the horse and driver were practically already leaving.

The house was now quiet, except for the splashing of water, clattering of plates. As quickly as she cleaned the dishes, the woman took out a broom and swept the floor with a shff, shff, opening the door and vigorously getting rid of a cloud of dust and into the snowdrift in the back.

_"He is a politician in the regional government,"_ the woman stated to the monster as she came back through the door. The first time she had addressed him directly. _"It is how we afford this house and how he pays the carriage driver. That research he does brings us no profit—any enterprising 'alchemist' in our country is unsuccessful unless his research helps the army in one of the capitals."_ Her eyes softened momentarily. _"He has never shunned money, and has done many cruel things to get it. The army would pay a lot for you." _She motioned to the creature's broad build and his muscles under his coat. "You were obviously meant to be used as some kind of weapon, but-"

The Homunculus listened, understanding some things, missing others. He was trying to get what she meant from her eyes, or from her hands as they worked the broom, rather than her words. _"—He wants to keep you. You mean a lot to him."_

Her eyes briefly met his, that violet one and the one with the red snake. She started to sweep out the fire pit, and opened the front door to get rid of the ashes.

_"If you live with us, you need to work, too. The logs-"_ She slowed down her speech, pointing to the fire pit –-_" are burnt out. Go get more."_

Without waiting for him to walk, she shoved the old man out of the house and shut the door.

The Homunculus wandered about the village, searching for said logs. In his mind swarmed the many words in Drachman that had leaked into him in a very short amount of time, and then the few in Amestrian that echoed distantly, particularly for the word hate.

He didn't know why that one was particularly strong—he had no reason to hate anyone. He liked his creator and was getting to like his wife. He liked the children and the night watchmen.

He decided that it was nothing that he should think too hard about, and the black-haired old man headed on through the village, passing by the milkman making his last deliveries.

He reached the edge and saw a grove of bald, snow-covered trees that thickly bordered the village. Above the trees loomed the mountains. Logs came from trees, right? He stared at the tree with his eye, running it all up and down the trunk, to where animals had burrowed into it and hollowed it out, to see every inch of the bark and past it-into the innards of the tree that the outside onslaught had weakened. He placed his hand on a tree at its weakest point and then punched it as hard as he could. Under the weight of his hard, artificially-constructed fist, the bones of which did not crack from the hit, the tree quivered, dumping its piles of snow on the ground.

The Homunculus walked back through the village, about to let his creator's wife know of his dilemma.

When he bumped into a young man wearing different clothes from either any of the villagers of what his creator wore.

_"Ohhh! A foreigner!"_ the other exclaimed, and was about to shake his mittened hand. _"Wait,"_ The young man's sharp eyes grew very hard, suspicious as he withheld his hand. _"You're not from Amestris, are you?_

Now that was a quandary. His creator and his wife kept on saying he was from Amestris, but he was born here. That confused him, and the creature honestly answered,

_"No, I am not."_

_"Then welcome to Drachma!"_ the one in strange clothes-wearing a strange sharp object at his belt, greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake. _"Is foreigner staring at this?"_ He indicated the sharp object. _"That's my superior's sword..I am in charge of cleaning it."_

_"Sword…what does it do?"_

The young man gave him a strange look—but then remembered the old man was civilian, how would he know what a sword did.

_"It is weapon. To protect us and families."_ The Homunculus's eyes drifted down. He could see that the young man was also wearing something else—a metal object concealed in a leather pouch and a smaller version of the large weapon.

_"How do you use it?"_

_"You're civilian. Why need learn to fight? Sword dangerous. Can kill."_

_"…Kill?"_

_"Make no more."_ The young man swiped his finger along his throat, feigning a death rattle.

The Homunculus was convinced. He needed something to make the tree no more, as he couldn't knock it down with his fists. Without saying anything, the old man whipped out his hand, snatching the hilt and pulling it out of the scabbard. The young man lurched forward, trying to grab it back, but the elder lurched to the side and away.

_"H-hey-thief! Bring back sword!"_

The young man took off frantically after the old man that tore a path through the snow. The young man ran through the thick snow, his guns and dagger knocking against his flank, though he quickly realized he would not catch up to the old man, he ran as hard as he could, only to see-

The old man stopped running as rapidly as he had started, standing in the huge divit he had made in the snow. The old man raised the sword and slashed twice _through the tree_ in rapid succession.

The Drachman soldier stared in amazement as the tree snapped and tumbled down into the snow, triggering a huge wave of snow to rise up on either side as the towering, bald tree fell to the earth.

The Homunculus raised the sword again and started chopping the tree in equal segments, the fallen tree shaking underneath the force of the blade. He heard the snowy tread of the young man who approached him, out of breath with excitement.

_"That was amazing! Not even the best general in Drachman army can handle sword like that!"_ the young man gawked. The old man sliced the tree at a measured, even pace. _"Nation could really use your help!"_

The Homunculus, pausing from his cutting, turned his head, and shook it, remembering what the alchemist's wife had said to him. He liked helping in this way. He did not want to leave and go back to the city where he was made. Something made him feel ill at ease-even his creator had been a different person there. And there was that echo of the Amestrian word—for hate—when he looked into the young man's fervent eyes, when he held the sword. He sped up, slicing the logs at a frenzied pace, to get the job done as quickly as possible so he could give the sword back to the younger man, who looked disappointed. _"Why not? You have amazing sword skill, why not use?"_

Snap. The Homunculus turned his head over his shoulder. For the first time, he narrowed his eyes, glowering a black hatred at the young man, a crushing, throttling glare that terrified the young man into silence.

The old man finished splitting the logs and handed the young man's sword to him, right after giving the blade a quick flick, cleaning the sword of bark and snow. As soon as the sword left the artificial human's hands, he felt calmer, his nerves less wired. He felt less hatred.

He gathered up the logs and brushed by the young man, and made his way slowly back to the house of the alchemist and his wife.


	6. Chapter 6

6

In the town regional office, decisions were made that affected the thirty villages in the Smokt region, the most remote from the Drachma-Amestris border but one that certain figures, including the alchemist, thought crucial to the welfare of the nation.

_"Two cows were stolen in Virna, and the culprits were arrested and the goods secured," _announced the elderly representative from said village, with murmurs of approval and relief from the other politicians._ "No harm was done. We have 28 votes for pardon, 1 abstention. Representative Rostov, what is your vote?"_

_"Execution, naturally."_

_"What-why?"_

_"You are letting that magic interfere with your judgment!"_ a bearded representative argued.

_"Why should they be allowed to live? There are already too many slaves in the mines. What is their constitution?"_

_"They have soft hands."_

_"That is precisely why I am recommending execution. Our region of Smokt is vital to our great nation of Drachma, which has always and will always centered in the village. The criminals stole cows—they stole meat and milk that keeps the villagers of Virna fed and happy. Villagers must remain happy throughout the winter in order to provide the nation with labor and food. Therefore, the criminals have attacked the nation itself. And if our nation is not healthy, it will not be able to stand against the Amestrians. "_

Convinced by the argument, the men changed their vote. Never mind that the one who recommended execution for enemies of the nation was keeping a weapon for himself that he had fashioned initially for the service of the state. But it wasn't much of a contradiction—he kept his politics and personal affairs separate.

_"Recite the creed."_

_"'We pledge undying loyalty to the village of Krezak, one spoke in the great wheel of Drachma."_

_"Lets begin."_

Chalk burned immutable truths on the tablet, accompanied by the ringing voice of the schoolmaster.

_"3 x 3?"_

_"9."_

_"3 x 4?"_

_"12."_

_"4 x 4?" _

_"16."_

_"5 x -Liza!"_ An iron rod clapped against the desk, which snapped the girl to attention. The other children stared at her, in horror. _"In front of the class, share your thoughts out loud,"_ the master ordered, his severe, statue-like face looming over her, tapping the rod on his shoulder, the implement pointed towards the chalkboard.

_"-Sorry…was thinking of foreigner,"_ the girl said innocently, kicking her legs under the desk.

The other children piped up, chattering and laughing among themselves, someone even imitating the big wrinkly man falling down in the snow, someone else making a half-circle with his hands to indicate the red snake.

_"Do not speak of foreigners. They only bring trouble,"_ the schoolmaster warned the children. _"Have you already forgotten your history? Turn to page 394 in your reader."_

The girl flipped to said page. _"Read it."_

_"'1914, 11th month: An Amestrian double-agent led 50,000 Drachman troops into a fatal confrontation with Amestrians at Fort Briggs. There were no Drachman survivors."'_

_"Precisely. For the first time in a hundred years our blessed Fatherland had built its standing army to a suitable size that we could launch a full-scale attack on the Amestrians. However, thanks to their treachery-"_ he bit into the s's of the word, underscoring the evil of the subterfuge. He could just _imagine_ what such an Amestrian rat looked like. _"Our forces were decimated, leaving countless Drachman children fatherless. It will take years before Drachma recovers.." _The master filled with resentment, hate-and derision. After all, _Drachma_ had been the nation that had been wronged. _"Those Amestrians—they approach you with a friendly smile whereas behind them they carry a sword. This will be the last—I hope, that you will speak of him-"_ The schoolmaster paused in mid-tirade. _"What does your foreigner look like?"_ he asked suddenly.

Someone in the back was all too eager to give a description, not paying attention to the schoolmaster's motivations for asking such a question.

_"Foreigner -old!"_

_"Yeah, yeah—old and big—strong and fast, like horse."_

_"Faster than horse!"_

_"No, no, just as fast!"_

_"-skin darker than us!"_

_"But hair same as us! Black, like eagle!"_

_"Hair all over mouth, but no beard!"_

_"And his eyes are-"_ All the children started talking at once, causing the schoolmaster to smack his rod into the table again, silencing them.

_"Vasya."_

_"One eye is colored like lake in summer."_ That was the polluted lake, the one by which the chemical plant of Konkretgorsk resided. The lake was so polluted it glowed purple. _"The other is—may I draw?"_

_"Draw."_

The boy got up from the desk and walked up to the chalkboard. He started to draw the end of a circle, upwards and to the left, making lines on it and then adding wings, that were cut off from the rest of the circle. He then drew a strange symbol underneath, that looked like a star—and then added a mouth and head and eye and teeth—that was no circle, and the schoolmaster inhaled sharply in mortal fear. _"Erase that at once!"_ The boy, startled, dropped the chalk, and quickly rubbed out the picture. _"That is the devil's own eye."_

The schoolmaster circled around three times and spat on the floor. _"I do not want to hear any of you going near that devil again, understand? Or I will beat you myself."_

And as the lesson resumed at 6 x 6, the children forced themselves to forget the snake-eyed foreigner, losing themselves in the dulling rhythms of the mundane and the familiar.

After the decisive obliteration of the Drachman forces in 1914, the two countries concluded peace with each other, as Drachma had no more army to fight them with. Amestris did not take any land-a sign of Fuhrer Grumman's good will. The same border regulations applied as before: no one could simply move from Drachma to Amestris or Amestris to Drachma. They had to become citizens of their destination country, and visitation was out of the question. Trade was coordinated by both governments and was to take place at designated trading centers on neutral ground.

Relations were smooth. And why wouldn't they be? No Dwarf in the Flask to hold them under its sway and deceive them into serving its needs and desires. Humans now ruled the world with no one to answer to but themselves.

Amestrian cargo vans were pulling up to the trading center in the distance as two shady characters snaked up the underside of the mountain, attempting what no adventurer would have done, in a time of peace or not.

They were equipped with grappling hooks, rope, all manner of climbing gear, food. One of them breathed in a lungful of air—and gasped at its thinness. Their voices were loud, barely able to hear each other over the wind.

"Hey man, what the hell are you doing? If ya wanted a breath of that fresh air, ya should've taken it at the base of the mountain!"

The first man, who was further up the mountain, writhed under the fierce winter sun leering down over the peak. Black spots burned in his eyes and he blinked fiercely to keep his focus on his hold, laughing off what his companion had said.

"With the bulls still loose in the arena? I'll take my chances up here, thanks! So—bro—what're we gonna do when we get to the other side, anyway?"

"Start over! No more pigs! No more runnin' and hidin'! Best thing that ever happened to this goddamn country was that rebellion in Central! We ran up such a big score I had to shove it up my ass! Then we've got the bulls cracking down, not on the ordinary populace, but real professionals-still, whatever man! Not even big-shot Grunman can stop us now!"

The first one hollered in noisy ecstasy, the air frigid and still as they climbed in heady giddiness towards the border.


	7. Chapter 7

7

The logs that Wrath had collected were lying in the fire pit. Still daylight, there was no need to use them. The woman had the creature stand over the tub in the kitchen, scrubbing the blouses and tunics with soap.

Every time he ran out of water, he drew the ice from the well in the back, brought the ice in, let it melt, and threw it over the clothes. Something told him, in the back of his mind, that this process should be much faster, but there was a cloud over his mind—and those faint echoes were just that, faint echoes, that he did not bother trying to pierce through.

A little clumsily, the Homunculus wrang out the blouse, the water falling in the tub.

_"Are you almost done there?""_

The old man nodded, hanging the wet clothes on the line that was right above the fire pit.

When there was a knock at the door. The man with the red markings on his back turned to answer it.

_"It's Mr. snake-eye!"_

The girl and the other children were crowded around the alchemist's door, their faces bright and smiling._"You come play!"_

_"May I play, mother?"_ asked the old man, looking over his shoulder at the woman busy at work. The woman flinched at being called 'mother', and shouted at him,

_"Do not call me mother! You are old enough to make your own decisions. "_

The children were jumping up and down with joy as their big friend made a glad acknowledgement at the woman and, putting on his coat, went with the children out the door out into the snow. The kids climbed up onto his shoulders and he went running through the deep snow in circles, the kids on his shoulder laughing while the others tried to keep up.

_"Not so fast..!"_ one of them called, breathing hard as he tried to catch up. _"No fair, Mr. snake-eye runs too fast!"_

_"He not snake-eye! He wrinkly!"_

_"Is not!"_

_"Is too!"_

_"Lets ask what he want to be called! Hey, wait, come back!"_

The kids ran off after him, laughing and tripping into the snow. They passed the village square, the sleeping, out-of-use pillory and the school, catching up to the old man who had gotten as far as the fence. The kids ran up to him, out of breath and holding their knees under their loose pants.

_"Hey Mister! You want snake-eye or wrinkly?"_

The old man thought for a moment, and let down the other kid from his shoulders.

_"Call what you want,"_ the old man spoke, his speech still broken and child-like.

_"Wrinkly snake! Or wrinkly eye, maybe?"_

_"Lets make wrinkly eye snowman!"_

The children began to shape a snowman, running around the gates to find the odd branch that had fallen down to make a likeness of the old man.

The schoolmaster was poring over the lesson plan for the next day before he headed home for the evening. He stared out at the scene, the somewhat dark, black-haired elderly man catching his eyes. He could not see the devil eye from here, but that was the man that his class had described.

But—the foreigner looked ordinary enough—the teacher's face and tense hands were rife with suspicion. He had not expected the children to heed his warning, but that was fortuitous—then he could observe the old man for himself.

He watched the building and completion of the snowman, in the likeness of the foreigner, complete with the devil eye. He acted ordinary enough-the old man circled around the snowman, appraising its quality. The old man nodded, nodded.

And then Vasya said something with enthusiasm. The teacher could not hear it from all the way across the schoolyard and over the fence. But what he saw was this: the children made a half-circle around the snowman and the foreigner, and started chanting something, sing-song.

The foreigner then leaped up, and that was the last thing the schoolmaster saw before the snowman split in two equal halves, one side falling onto the fence, the other landing near Liza, who yelped as she scrambled away from the falling snowman-half. She joined the rest of the children in an excited cheering and clapping as the teacher's skin paled to a sick whitish-gray color. He hurriedly closed his notes and shut the door, leaving through the hallway and then the back way of the schoolhouse.

A plump, middle-aged man in a leather cap lay sleeping, drooling on a chair in front of a wooden building with barred windows. Everyone knew who he was just by his unkempt face, but as a formality he wore a metal badge on his coat.

_"Constable Vitkov-! There is a dangerous man living here. I find it my duty as a citizen to let you know."_

The said constable shifted in his seat, damp because the chair legs were half-submerged in the snow.

_"What's he done?"_

_"I fear—I fear he might hurt the children. He has not done anything yet, but there is evil in his eyes—a wicked symbol from a foreign land."_

The constable gave the teacher an exasperated look, downed half a bottle of drink and set it on the raised platform in front of the door of the jail. The contents sloshed thinly in the bottle, vintage 1902.

_"Oh—you mean foreigner. We don't deal with foreigners. Internal problems only,"_ He waved a fat hand. _"Besides, we know him. He's good guy. "_ The constable adjusted his leather cap with indifference, _"But if you're so worried, contact army."_

The schoolmaster's face fell and he wrung his hands, supplicating.

_"The nearest outpost is an entire day's walk from here. Please-this is an emergency, Constable."_

_"Then you in luck. A soldier stationed in Krezak, at Kuzha's place,"_ the officer droned before falling asleep in front of the other man.

A lantern held by a bleary-eyed old woman wrapped in a mauve shawl greeted the teacher.

_"I'm sorry to bother you, but is there an Erdko staying with you?"_

_"Why, yes—Mishka!"_ called the old woman. A brown-haired—he must have been from Southern Drachma—soldier climbed out of the blankets and showed deference to the schoolmaster, who motioned him outside. The old woman closed the door.

_"Mr. Erdko, I have come to warn you about the foreigner with the devil eye. He has the children's minds under his power."_ Utter gravity weighed down his features. _"He has not made his intentions known, but I fear for the safety of the village, especially the children, unless the army removes this threat from our presence."_

The soldier perked up when he heard the foreigner, and to the schoolmaster's dismay, spoke of him with enthusiasm and –admiration.

_"Oh! Foreigner with devil eye—very strong—very fast. I asked him to join army because of skills—. He did not want to join army. Too bad-Drachma plans resurgence. When we strong enough we break peace with Amestris. He could make us strong. But he don't care about country."_ Erdko made a slicing motion with his fist. _"He only chop wood, glare me and go away."_ Erdko's confused eyes said, 'can you believe that'?

The schoolmaster's face fell: the creature, with a power to wreak destruction on Krezak, was not considered a criminal, but a potential hero. Still, the schoolmaster was not defeated yet.

_"You are-absolutely right, citizen Erdko. It is hard to believe that a man of such potential would not want to fulfill his patriotic duty. The army needs a soldier like the foreigner to save our country from the depths of stagnation and instruct those Amestrians that a true peace will only be concluded on our terms." Erdko was enraptured by the schoolmaster's articulateness and oratory powers. Nudge. " You should be the one to tell the Generals and the Drachman Council all about this man. The word of one visionary like yourself does not have much weight, after all."_

The soldier grinned sheepishly.

_"I'm flattered you think I'm so high up ladder. But I can only tell my Captain, who is stationed in Virna. By the time it goes up chain of command and gets to Council, Amestrians might-"_ the soldier's eyes widened in a terrible realization. _"Sir-do you have any information on foreigner?"_

_"I will find out from my students where he lives, along with any other information that the military should be aware of,"_ the schoolmaster promised the soldier, and after an exchange of farewells, the two parted, the soldier back to the old woman's house, the schoolmaster back to his abode.

To run a potential hero out of town one needed a complex _plan_, and the schoolmaster with all of his learning began to prepare the field and plant seeds.


	8. Chapter 8

8

The thick snow melted into mud, ploughs furrowed the earth and planting began. The warm, wet days of spring gave way to the blistering heat of summer where planting continued, and then the harvest took what had been growing all year, abundance of animal and plant life growing into scarcity as the frost hit once again. This cycle repeated itself three times.

It was nearing the end of harvest time for the southern portion of Drachma. The northern half, already snowed in, had stopped planting a few months before. Mr. Red and Mr. Gold, (as the locals affectionately called them) the intrepid explorers who in fact did make it across the Drachma-Amestris border, were making a modest living as tour guides in the town bordering Drachma. Wealthy Drachmans journeyed to lands' end just to stare upon the famed Briggs Mountains, before returning to their city, town, or village.

_"And this is the famous Litkov Bell! It was constructed in 1626 to commemorate the coronation of Evgeni the Twenty-Second, the Drachman emperor that opened trade with Amestris!"_

_"Oh, how interesting..!"_

Every day, just beyond the border town past a steel fence, new troops advanced up Mt. Briggs and disappeared over the mountain. Mr. Red and Mr. Gold conducted their tours for the past three years over distant cannon fire dulled by the mountains.

_"And this is Dead Man's Fence—"_

_"'Cause if ya cross it—"_

_"You're a dead man!"_

A general in the Drachman feathered beaver hat stood at the exit, framed by the crest of Drachma. Mr. Red tried to keep his cool despite the bad feeling that he got, and Mr. Gold chatted it up with the patrons.

_"So, where're you from?"_

_"Bunshok."_

_"Where's Bunshok?"_

_"Two days walk from Kunshok."_

Mr. Red felt his head get lighter and lighter as he neared the General. The latter did not look happy. Smiling wasn't Drachmans' strong suit, but the General looked pissed.

And he found himself confirmed in his assessment when the General motioned him and his brother to come with him. The patrons lowered their heads, knowing full well what that meant.

The brothers sat before the General, who was occupied writing something. He had a beard that looked like it could stab your eye out. He did not take his eyes away from them, even while writing.

_"Your real names, Mr. Red and Gold."_

_"Emmet Barnes."_

_"Ernie Barnes."_

_"Occupation before entering Drachma?"_

_"Adventurers!"_

The General wrote down 'larcenists' instead, and both men knew better to argue.

_"Current occupation?"_

_"We're tour guides for the town of Setnov."_

The bearded general scribed that, and informed the two,

_"Ordinarily, the punishment for illegal aliens who pose as natives to garner a trade would be branding plus ten years in the mines."_ The General puffed on his cigarette while the two Amestrians squirmed. "_But there are extenuating circumstances."_ The General laid out a photograph and handed it to each of them. _"This is Arkady Rostov and his wife, Elen Ilya. They live in Krezak, the most outlying village in the far northwest of Drachma."_

One of the Amestrians looked at the photo, shifting it around, flipping it, flicking the really bad photographic paper that the image was on.

_"So—what're we supposed to do with 'em?"_

_"That is not your concern,"_ answered the General. _"You will be going to the north either way—under protection from the Drachman military by the finest transportation that the center capital can offer—or in chains where they will break your backs digging for silver."_

The brothers looked at each other. The choice was obvious.

Between gathering supplies, and coordination between the soldiers in Krezak and Setnov, it took a year to get to the two Amestrians to the village.

But a year well spent.

The harsh north wind bit under the blue fabric of the Amestrian military uniform that was not suited to Drachma's winters. One of the brothers, half-frozen, shivered and sneezed while the other looked at the little house at the edge of the village.

"So—what are we supposed to be doing? And why'd they make us dress up like the pigs?" one asked the other in their own language. The sneezing brother shrugged and clamped his gloves around his shoulders, his teeth clattering. Drachman infantrymen stood behind them, their knives drawn, making sure they did not go anywhere.

_"I'm very pleased to finally meet you in person. _the schoolmaster stated, _"So, what are you again? An artificially created human?"_

The old man, no longer having the speech patterns or mannerisms of a child, behaved like the old gentleman that he looked like. In these three years he had not grown any older physically, but he had matured mentally.

_"That is correct."_

_"That is quite fascinating—please, tell me more. More tea?"_

_"Why yes, that would be lovely."_

_"Our son is still at Master Asanyev's house?"_ the alchemist's wife asked, reading by the fire pit. The alchemist made an affirming noise from his study, poring over formulas and circles, relieved to be away from the political grind that usually kept him away for weeks at a time. It was a rare moment where he had spent an entire month with his wife and their Homunculus. His wife had warmed up to their son in the past few years, and had taught him the finer points of Drachman grammar, their customs-even uptight Mariya Anastayevna had admitted that the artificial human could pass for a native.

The woman flipped to the next page with her thumb. _"Master Asanyev has been keeping him for a while. I wonder what they could be talking about?"_

_"Whatever it is, it must be an illuminating discussion."_

A warm, hearty silence passed, as the woman continued to read and the alchemist continued to pore over his arrays.

A sudden bang made the door shudder, sending the alchemist's wife standing up suddenly, and dropping her book. The soldier kept his gun trained on them while soldiers armed with daggers rushed into the house.

_"What is all this—you have no right to barge in he-"_

She was abruptly cut off as the soldier struck from the front and slit the woman's throat. The victim fell onto the floor with a thud, jerking and twitching as the blood from her jugular spurted out and coated the wooden boards in a dark red.

_"No., no…Elen!"_ The alchemist had rushed out from his study in time to see her fall on the floor in a jagged pool of her blood. This was not—this could not be happening—he went weak at the knees and fell on the floor next to her body—He had time to draw half a transmutation circle before the soldiers swarmed him, repeatedly stabbing him until he expired and fell atop his wife.

_"Group 1, take everything you find in that room and gather it! Group 2, bring the Amestrians here and plant the weapons on their persons! Seal up the house!"_ the Captain barked, flipping over the bodies with a booted foot so that their faces were visible. There was a flood of gray uniforms as the assigned group hurriedly stacked the rolls of parchment and the few books that were there, took the red rocks that were in a container on the desk, took the oil lamp, with crowbars, ripped up the nails from the floorboards, uprooted the boards, and found a wrapped-up corpse which had an ink scrawl on the wrappings that said, _'Do not show to little human',_ and took that too.

This group leaped over the bodies as they marched out into the snow, headed towards a carriage, and loaded the research and everything in the room into the back, and then climbed on as a whip cracked and a horse went speeding into the distance.

The heavy snowfall was already erasing the tracks that the Drachmans had made as the second group forced the Amestrians into the house and threw all their bloody weapons in with them before locking the door and shutting the window. sealing it. They doused buckets of concrete against the door and shut window, paving the surface so it covered all of the entrances. They were rushing, and their hands were red, chapped knuckles gripped around their tools.

_"Hey, what the hell do ya think you're doin'?"_

"Ernie, there's a goddamn dead body in here!"

"What-? Hell, what're they tryin' to do to us?"

The Amestrians pounded on the sealed window and door, yelling at the top of their lungs. The Drachmans covered the rest of their tracks by scattering the snow on their prints, and then blended under the cover of trees, waiting.

The Homunculus trod homeward through the falling snow, his Drachman-made boots sinking in heavily. He had enjoyed the conversation over tea with Mr. Asanyev, though he did keep him rather late.

The sky hovered a thick blue-black over the village, and the smoke lifted out of the hole in the roof. Though—he noticed he could only vaguely see the light radiating out through the window. There was a solid object in the way. What had happened to the window and the door?

As he reached 100 feet of the house—

_Concrete? What the devil?_

The old man started walking faster, beads of sweat forming on his wrinkled brow. His mounting anxiety prevented him from sighting the Drachman soldiers couched in the trees surrounding the house. He was focused on the house itself. The nature of his eye prevented him from seeing straight through the structure, and therefore prevented him from being able to identify the bodies immediately, but he could make out shapes through the grains of wood. Prone shapes, surrounded by upright shapes bearing weapons.

The Homunculus's jaw slackened and his eyes shot open, his nerves jolted with fear. The old man switched from walking to running through the snow, and rammed his shoulder into the concrete door, denting it after a few seconds of battering.

_"This method is inefficient,"_ he observed as he scaled the house and jumped up to the roof, He dropped into the house through the opening, angling his drop to miss the fire pit and shaking the floorboards as he landed.

And his fears were confirmed, a dryness forming in his throat, his knees, normally strong and solid, growing weak from shock. Shock at the sight of his creator and his wife, dead, covered in blood. Two men in blue uniforms above their bodies.

"H-hey—it's not what ya think—"

The old man released an unrestrained cry, so raw and primal it bled his throat. The weakness in his legs vanished and was replaced with unwavering resolve, fueled by bitter _hate_. He lunged, wild-eyed at the killer, gripping his throat and with a swift contraction of muscles in his thick hand, broke the other's neck messily, the stalk where the head once rested protruding from the bloody flesh. The now-dead man slumped limply against the wall.

"Ernie!" the other Amestrian breathed, hoarse and stricken with terror. "S-Stay away, ya m-monster-!"

The Homunculus whirled on the other, his teeth clenched, his hair and mustache bristling, as he grabbed the other one with the blue uniform by the face, and smashed his head into a pulp into the concrete block. The hands convulsed and then went limp, as the unrecognizable head lolled off to the side.

He walked to the center of the house where his adopted parents were. He removed his coat and draped it over their bodies in reverence.

_If something should ever happen to us, son—burn our bodies."_

_"But why would anything happen to you?"_

_"Because we are human."_

The old man could not manage a tear, but he could honor their wishes. His body heavy with sadness, he broke a chair leg and held it down into the fire pit. The smoky, fire-engulfed piece of wood he raised up and lit the walls ablaze, starting there for the wall was drier than the floor, that was damp from other men entering. Perhaps if the old man was not currently blinded by rage, then he would have realized that there were many more than _two_ men here. The fire slowly snapped up the wood as the old man fed the fire with other parts of the chair. The air generated by the creature's darting around to collect more wood dried the floor further, and the whole house was ablaze, scorching the concrete block.

The old man walked out of a hole between the flames and emerged behind the house, glaring down at the snow. The soldiers headed by the Captain approached the creature, hiding their complicity without flaw.

_"I am sorry to hear about your parents."_

The old man stared out of hard, harsh eyes.

_"I was not aware that you knew,"_ His voice was filled with bare hate. Some of the other soldiers balked at continuing the charade—the creature was in a rage—he very nearly resembled a beast. But the Captain forged on, so they shut their traps and let him do the talking.

_"The Rostovs were dear friends of one of my men here. We heard a detachment of Amestrian military had broke the peace and attacked a Drachman village, but we never expected it to be Krezak."_ The Captain continued, as the creature burned with withering rage as the house blazed freely behind them, human remains turning to charcoal in the conflagration. _"As officers in the Drachman military, it is our duty to see that you are lodged somewhere else, safe from the Amestrian dogs."_

By now, the Captain was improvising. He was not expecting him to burn down the house. With any luck, the creature would agree to move into the capital and they could conscript him into Drachma's forces from there, but there was no guarantee he would accept—they ran up into a roadblock in their plan, which was threatening to fall apart-

The old man clenched his fists, to the point his nails made bloody dents in his calloused palms. The monster's eyes flashed a glowing red in the night shadows.

_Take me to the capital."_

It was not a request, but a command, the words forcing roughly from his lips. For a moment, the charade fell and the Captain, stunned, saluted him, as if the monster was his superior.

Wrath—unwitting that he was-had reawakened.


	9. Chapter 9

9

The high ceiling of the Assembly Hall murmured with whispered commands and secret decisions.

_"Who knew that Arkady Rostov was hiding the weapon?"_ the senior chair questioned, stroking his long, gray beard between delicate fingers.

_"Northwestern intelligence reports that the entire village of Krezak was privy to Rostov's possession of the weapon. Rostov was not exactly subtle. As soon as he returned to the village, he told everyone, and they failed to share this information with the military."_

_"Then raze Krezak to the ground. We cannot risk the other villages getting the idea that hiding vital information from the Council will be tolerated."_

The other Council members murmured in agreement, drawing up documents and appending signatures. The moment the signed documents were taken out of the room in a sealed envelope through the back entrance, the weapon in question was led through the great doors, accompanied by the General from Setnov.

The senior chair could not help but be surprised. That old shriveled corpse that Rostov had wheeled in three years ago possessed the appearance of a man of middle age, strong and tall, dressed in Drachman uniform, armed with Drachman sword and volcanic hate in its eyes. The kind of hate that ordinary soldiers of this nation needed and surely ihad/i, but their once grand army had been so weakened by that Amestrian state alchemist's deception, that even though they had been slowly rebuilding their forces during this so-called peace, they could not ihope/i to touch their southern enemy….

..Unless, this supposed monster soldier was everything the Generals claimed it to be.

_"Why have you come here?"_ the senior chair asked from the bench high above the weapon.

_"To destroy the Amestrian military to the last man."_

The weapon's voice was even, chillingly emotionless, devoid of anything except for fury. There was nothing in his life that gave him reason to be _silently_ livid—only that vague, unremembered existence before he was re-transmuted.

Through the great doors, heaved open, poured in twelve blue uniformed gunmen, surrounding Wrath.

_"The Amestrian dogs are before you. We will see if you fulfill your vow."_

Skepticism dripped from the senior chair's voice. In one arcing slash, before the Amestrian-garbed Drachmans could even pull the trigger and prolong the fight, Wrath cleaved them open, leaving the enemies dead on the blood-soaked marble.

The chair was stunned—pleased and stunned. He stood up and gave the weapon long, slow applause. There was now no longer any doubt—Rostov's monster was a killing machine that would save Drachma. _"You are hereby allowed—"_

Allowed, not ordered to- _"To dispose of any Amestrian soldier that you see."_

_"I thank you, Chairman,"_ Wrath bowed to the Drachman heads of state, and left with the General, while grunts outside were assigned with the odious task of cleaning up the death-reeking room.

The General left several low-ranking men flanking the weapon to escort him to the border once they had reached Setnov. They headed towards the fence, which stood about 30 feet off the slush and ice, and were in the process of unlocking it. This was Dead Man's Fence, beyond which the Drachman military sizing a mere 5,000 men drilled and tested weapons: a vast, barren snowfield that lay in the shadow of Mt. Briggs,

Cannonfire erupted from the test shots as a group of five, garbed in camouflaging white uniforms not unlike the Briggs forces, received their briefing from their commander, Sergeant Renkov.

i"..Once on Amestrian side of the border you will secretly take out any Briggsman you encounter. You will then dispose of their bodies. Am I clear?"/i His force acknowledged in proud unison. i"We will be the first Drachmans to engage Amestians since 1914...this is great moment for Drachma!"/i

The force full of purpose and fervent loyalty began the climb up the shadowed side of Briggs.

Wrath flicked his sword at those flanking him in clear warning to stay back, and headed on through the unlocked fence. The escort shirked, not wanting to get the other's blade in his stomach. The artificial human advanced towards the scant handful of Drachman operatives running up the snow-crusted mountain-he could see their concealed blades- it gave away that the nature of their attack was to be secret. But, Wrath was not _part_ of this force. Those men were fighting the friction and steepness of the mountain - falling in line with them would just slow him down. He charged up the mountain at blistering speed, gouging a furrow in the ice, not heeding the shouted order of the head of the unit to fall back in line, report to your commander. Obviously this was a raw recruit, and a istupid/i one at that to blindly charge across the border, and in regular, gray Drachman uniform. The idiot would be killed on the spot—if not by the Amestrians, then the man's superior officer.

Wrath crashed up the mountain that went nearly vertical as he approached the border, marked by the Drachman crest. The heavy, comparatively clumsy Drachman military uniform did not appear to weigh the old man down at all, and the fact the border guards saw this and were perturbed only added to their abrupt reception of him at the gate.

_"Are you insane? Get back to your commanding officer! If you go now you won't be executed for being idiot!"_

One of the border guards barked at the lone soldier—. The rest of the small, six-man force was still running up the mountain, white blotches in the distance. The leader was repeating the same, muffled order to 'go back down, report to your commanding officer'. The border guard approached, wondering if the soldier was deaf or audacious. He wasn't but three feet away when the rogue soldier looked at him level and suddenly: the guard saw the unsettling snake eye. The sight of that strange symbol caused his hand go up to his head reflexively, saluting their fellow—if not native-born Drachman soldier. They had received explicit instructions from the Council itself to let the creature pass—and explicit threats should they not let him pass.

The border guard made the Drachman equivalent of the 'ok' sign with his fingers. The muffled shouting stopped and the six-ma unit forged their way up the mountain. So they wouldn't be the first to engage after all-but their mission remained unchanged. The sight of such a fearless though unorthodox soldier filled them with more verve, and they climbed with fresh vigor.

Unimpeded, Wrath lifted his boot and invaded Amestrian soil. Far below, on the Amestrian side of Mt. Briggs, the Fort stood, waving a flag-not the enemy's flag. But the meaning of this unidentifiable flag did not concern him. His vision telescoped, magnifying the ground a hundred times to bring the targets inside the fort into range of his sight long before he reached the ground.

And the Briggsmen, hardened veterans though they were with animal-like reflexes and ever-vigilant, even during peace time—couldn't see it coming.


	10. Chapter 10

10

Switch.

The tracks shifted with a click, allowing the train to go a different way than before. It chugged under the tunnel and circled back. This time it rolled across the bridge across the gorge instead of detouring through the tunnel.

"It's leaving East City...and then…goes across the bridge…and past the forests...and then proceeds to Central..!" the boy, who spoke with a quiet, well-bred voice, mused. He was lying on his chest in front of his train set. He moved the wooden figures, whose painted eyes and mouth indicated their humanity—or at least their facsimile of it—around with his fingers, kicking his legs up and down on the floor. He did that lightly, as he was taught not to scuff the floor with his shoes.

"We have now reached our destination. Welcome to Central City," the boy put words in the mouths of the wooden figures, using different voices for the conductor, each of the passengers, the men taking care of the engine. He imagined the conductor had a deeper voice, and pitched his small, young voice as low as it could go. It got scratchy and hurt his throat a little- he coughed, covering his mouth went without saying.

It was fun for the boy and he didn't know any other children, anyways, that he could play pretend with. The Bradleys were the former ruling family, so they should maintain the 'privileges of seclusion' that they had maintained during his father's reign.

That was what the current Fuhrer had told them, anyway.

"Public school? Nonsense!" the bouncy, gray-haired man, the leader of the whole country, had casually said to him and his mother over dinner. "Little Selim is a step above ordinary education. He couldn't ask for a better tutor than you, Madame Bradley."

The old woman, her hair still sandy, the years having been mercifully good to her, nodded, her hands clasped in her lap while Selim chewed his peas, a napkin around his neck as a bib, assented, but reasoned all the same,

"While I'm proud that you see my boy in such a good light, Selim should really be around children his own age. I think it'd be a lot healthier for him, Fuhrer, Sir."

And Grumman just answered with that chuckle, not opening his eyes. That half-amused expression that her husband used to wear.. And she knew immediately that this was an impossible request.

Three years had passed. Selim was expressly not allowed off of the grounds. Though the Bradleys were no longer the ruling family, both she and Selim—had been quarantined in the Presidential Manor ever since that day when her world turned upside-down.

But things had settled—and, strong woman that she was, she endured.

But today—was just one of these days.

Mrs. Bradley sat at her sewing, pushing the needle and thread through the material and pulling it out the other way.

"All aboard for West City..!" Selim called, cupping a hand to his mouth—he pitched the conductor in the middle of his range, but tried to make the conductor sound authoritative by rounding his lips, making the conductor frowny, kind of. He put his wooden dolls in place again for the next journey, taking them from where he imagined the station to be-(the train station was sold separately, but it wasn't sold anymore, what a shame).

Selim walked each of the wooden passengers up to the train. He opened the doors of the train and put the wooden lady in the dining car—she should want to have tea with her family. He seated the young man with the young woman, the child with the child, making whole families wherever he could. He positioned the last passenger, the old woman, in the last remaining seat, and moved around her hands so it would look like she was sleeping. That way she would not be staring out the window and be lonely. He was glad the old woman had a smile: even if she was awake she at least didn't iseem/i to be lonely. But Selim wasn't sure, so he walked the wooden child over two cars back to the old lady, and moved him around, his wooden feet tapping on the train floor.

"Please don't be lonely," Selim pleaded through the wooden child. "I'll sit with you if you like so you'll have company."

He moved the old woman's head like she was nodding and he made his voice sound like an old woman's—that was somewhat hard, since he didn't know what old women sounded like. He only knew his mother—whose hair was not gray, and so she could not be old. And he knew Fuhrer Grumman, who was an old gentleman, not an old lady. The butler was an old gentleman too. "Oh, that's very kind of you, young man," he imagined what his mother would sound like if she was older, and combined that with Fuhrer Grumman's voice. It did not turn out well, but it was the thought that counted, he supposed.

The toy train was just leaving the station when Selim's sharp ears caught someone crying. "Mother..?" Selim blinked his wide, dark eyes underneath that curious mark on his forehead and trotted up the green-carpeted stairs towards his mother's room.

He looked up to see his mother's head buried her arms, her sewing work discarded on the table, her sobs shaking her body. Her sleeves were damp. "Mother—please don't cry," the boy implored, wrapping his small arms around her frame—usually so strong, that could easily pick him up and carry him into the house after he would scrape up his knee in the yard, but it was so vulnerable—like the slightest puff of air would shatter her. "Why are you sad?"

Mrs. Bradley looked down, trying to show restraint in front of her son, wiping her tears the best as she could. She was the mother.

_For his sake, I am his father, too._

"Come here, Selim—you don't need to worry about your mother."

She shifted towards him on the chair, scooped him up in her arms, setting her on her skirts, ruffling his hair and kissing the top of his head. "She's just fine."

Selim looked up, his face taking on a strange look, as if a seemingly inexplicable wisdom superseded his young age.

"No—she is not." Repeating her 'she' instead of using a potentially accusatory 'you'. Because Selim was so proud, he was the last to show his true emotions, what he really felt about a situation, and kept a contented face for the general peace and harmony of the household. He did not want his mother to be sad by showing his own sadness. But now that she was, it made him feel better about saying what he actually felt. "She is sad that Fuhrer Grumman will not let me leave."

Mrs. Bradley exhaled and looked at her son.

"You knew all this time-" And then her eyes squeezed shut as she pulled his head to her chest. "Oh, sweetie-Selim, I should have known that I couldn't keep the truth from you." She smiled sadly into his hair. Selim mirrored her smile, his big eyes shining with hope despite being sad. "Though I'm allowed to leave—you-you can't, honey."

"I know it's the decision of the state, Mother—but—" Selim blinked, arranging his thoughts before he spoke. "For what reason?"

Mrs. Bradley ran her fingers through his hair. She flinched at the tap, tap of the butler walking down the hall. "I'm not allowed to tell you why."

_"We don't know what could restore his memory." _

_"Get rid of anything alchemy-related books, and drawings he might have made as a Homunculus. They might have been in code"._

_"Burn the photographs of his 'father'. Seal up his clothes. Get rid of the extra place at the table." _

Those were the conditions Mrs. Bradley was ordered to fulfill in order to keep Selim. The scent of the one that she, after time had passed, learned was called 'Wrath' eventually faded from the house without her needing to actively purge it.

She would be fooling herself if she said it wasn't painful. She was forced to exchange the memory of one life for another.

_Maybe I'm being too greedy—but why can't I keep both? No…how childish of me..I'm blessed enough by having Selim in my life._

Selim buried his nose in his mother's shoulder, his wide eyes closing halfway, hurt and brooding, but looking beyond his mother's shoulder so she couldn't see. So she wouldn't be more sad.

_I have the feeling-that it's my fault. Why else would she keep the truth from me?_

And the solemn child allowed himself some tears, moving his chin up onto his mother's shoulder so he could cry onto the floor. And Mrs. Bradley pretended she did not hear him, to preserve his dignity. For how much could a child have left, when everyone whispered behind his back that he was a monster?


	11. Chapter 11

11

"Give me everything you've got on the Fort Briggs incident."

Mustang raised his non-seeing eyes up from his enfolded gloved hands. His voice was smooth, and elegant, youthful, a contrast to many of the grizzled old men in the top brass. But his speech was firm and full of conviction, fueled by his burning ambition, that had not changed in the slightest, even after the Homunculi, even after the corruption of the Central forces was revealed, he was still hell-bent on becoming the most powerful man in Amestris.

"We have 100 dead at the northern border, sir,"

informed Mustang's smallest staff member, adjusting his glasses that were slipping off of his pale face. The rest—Breda, Falman, and Hawkeye stood in front of their leader, once again locked out of the corridors of power.

"The attack occurred about seventy-two hours ago, while the peace flag over Fort Briggs was raised, " Falman, most in tune with affairs in the North, relayed. "The scouts on patrol outside the Fort survived. Two hours later, they detained a six-man Drachman unit trying to infiltrate the Fort. They are in the custody of the remaining Briggsmen, but claim not to know anything about the incident."

"Those guys ain't gonna break. They're trained for this, same as us," Breda sunk his arms against his chest and shook his head, though he was aware that his superior couldn't see the gesture. Nor could he see the hot dog that Breda was trying to sneak before he spoke in disbelief. "Our guys at Briggs razed the Drachman troops last time. The hell happened?"

"We weren't expecting it-" Fuery answered, ears down, eyes wide. He should be used to this by now, but-well, he hoped it wasn't anyone he knew, at least.

Mustang nodded, articulating the particulars of Fuery's general statement-and Mustang was a touch sardonic. "They signed a treaty with the Fuhrer and attack when we're not armed for war." Thinking. "Was General Armstrong informed?"

"That's a negative, Colonel. Fuhrer Grumman is doing everything he can to isolate General Armstrong from the northern forces. Riza looked slightly smug, as if she was confirming what Mustang had already suspected. "But we all know that that's just a wasted effort. Like she always says, Briggs doesn't need her."

"It's still in bad taste not to tell an officer that her men are dead." Mustang frowned and reached for the phone. He had groped for the phone long enough that he knew where it was without struggling. "Why did North City Command wait so long? Central should have found out about the attack while the attack was in progress."

"The senior staff kept it quiet. We only found out about it through a leak-Lieutenant Falman intercepted correspondence between Central and North City Command."

"Really?" Mustang's eyebrow quirked at Lieutenant Hawkeye's words, and his mouth upturned in half-disgust, half-amusement. "After all that's happened in this country, they still insist on pulling the wool over your eyes. Two can play at that game." Still with the phone in his hand, he ordered his staff, minus Jean Havoc,

"Contact every Drachman-born citizen in Central. Find out what you can from them about the attacks. Do not_use force," he underscored that, his brows pressing heavy against his blank eyes. "They have their networks. We have ours."

"Sir!" the four soldiers saluted, and they exited Mustang's office. The blonde woman lingered at the door, about to say something. Mustang's sharpened ears caught the lieutenant stopping at the door, waiting.

"Will you be alright here, without a bodyguard?"

The lieutenant had remained his eyes, and had not been away from him since the Promised Day, watching his back and aiding him with fighting. But now that the Colonel was once again moving forward, however, he had started to become more independent again and the lieutenant was concerned for his safety. Had his hearing become that acute?

"You're dismissed, Lieutenant Hawkeye," Mustang said—not harshly, not indifferently—and with a bit of a smile. Riza smiled a little in return, and then turned on her heel and exited the office. As soon as everyone else left, the sightless man dialed the phone in total darkness, pulled it up to his ear. "East City Command? I need you to connect me to Major General Olivier Armstrong."

The Drachmans had called off their weapon before too much damage was done.

"That was messy, but effective. Well done."

An unused warehouse in North City was the ideal place for their conversation. Dusty, cobwebbed, unlit-isolated in the outskirts of the snowbound city.

"You want to know why we didn't let you wipe out the entire Briggs forces?"

Now that they were not on the move, Wrath snatched up the opportunity to carefully observe the humans speaking with him. At the border, he had barely bit into the ranks of the Amestrians-he had cut down every blue uniform in the fort, and had his eyes locked on the ones outside, before a handful of masked Drachman soldiers in camouflage had summoned him off the field and they all disappeared before the surviving Amestrians could sight them.

Even then, the Drachman soldiers realized, from the terrible look in the Homunculus's eyes-from that blood-drenched sword that he had initially brandished at them that the creature would have killed them if he were just a bit less aligned with their country. And in other circumstances, they feared-in a brief crumbling of their idealism, that the monster would kill _anyone_ if not prevented from doing so.

Wrath had suspected them—these soldiers weren't coming from across the border, but from the _south, _but his -not his ease towards them, but his _tolerance_ of them grew when they approached North City in secret-as would anyone in hostile territory would convey themselves. Therefore, he felt they were no threat, even though before they entered North City, even before they changed from Drachman camouflage uniform to what was presumably _Amestrian_ civilian clothing, even as they had spoken nothing but what sounded like _Amestrian _to him.

Someone new came in through the door, face red with cold. He was in Drachman camouflage, and was lightly armed. He looked afraid, and whispered something to one of the disguised Drachmans, received orders, left the warehouse. The one that had given the orders was less demonstrative, and with an only slightly more grave look leaned on the concrete wall, flicking out his palm as he took a drag on his cigarette.

"They have our special forces unit in their custody."

At hearing the news, one held a closed fist downwards,-in patriotism, not to be construed as a warning to the weapon.

"Our special forces unit consists of loyal, strong Drachmans. They will faithfully die with the state secret." His sharp eyes read,'too effective. The weapon overdid it.'

One of the others seconded his brother-in-arms, adjusting his suspenders.

"If you keep doing it this way, they will trace it right back to Drachma."

Another one, put an emphatic palm on the old man's hard shoulder, clasping it firmly,

"We need you to take it slowly, to hide the fact that the killing is being endorsed by the Drachman government. Leave the small fries alone."

"Do you understand?"

Wrath's weathered visage was unmoving under the dim lantern that one of them held up to his face.

_It's frustrating. That language I knew before I was made—it's gone now._ The old man's eyes narrowed in irritation. _I will have to learn it again._

Since the Homunculus was not moving nor making a move to answer them, one of them remarked, "He doesn't understand us." The most outwardly patriotic used stronger words and more pronounced gestures as he switched to Drachman. His shadow twitched and railed against the wall.

_"Drachma isn't strong or rich enough to wage war against Amestris."_ The others gave him a hard look: they didn't like their brash countryman's accusatory tone-_ "If the peace weren't broken by y-"_

The Drachman operative who had been casually leaning on the concrete wall and smoking extricated himself briskly from the wall and clapped his junior on the cold-raw ear, that went redder in the dim light. A yelp of pain was heard. They didn't want to unduly anger the Homunculus.. Clearly he hadn't known anything about the affairs of Amestris-or, perhaps he knew and he simply didn't care  about the official peace.

The one who had his hand on Wrath's shoulder removed it and also switched to Drachman, taking on an official, urgent tone towards the weapon, and avoided the mention of peace altogether.

_"What he means to say is that we must keep the blame off of Drachma and you must only kill in secret and specific targets, do you understand?"_

Wrath's sharp frown dampened into a frigid scowl. They were speaking Drachman to him, yes. But he did not like what he heard

_"My orders came from the Chairman. Are you telling me that your authority supersedes his?"_ Though the alleged Drachmans were his fellows, the creature spoke to them as if he was their superior. But some of them were flinching and tight-shouldered—they were too scared of the creature to point out that breach of rank.

Instead, they continued to reason with him, patient, persistent.

_"The Chairman has Drachma's best interests, but he does not live here. We know the Amestrians better than they know themselves!"_

_"For Amestris to fall, it will be no good to strike down the small fries who have no power, no matter how sweet the vengeance is."_

Wrath's eyes narrowed further. His tone was even, and far colder than before. The creature's violet eye smoldered into the darkness, causing the lantern-bearer to almost drop it. _"Let me rephrase. Do you have the ability to stop me—if I do contrary to what you ask?"_

A moment of tension gripped the Drachman spies under that threatening, violent voice, that carried underneath it what they could already feel would be unfettered rage, swift and uncompromising retaliation. It was true—their hands were tied. They had a living weapon, but it was far from docile. And they were regretting their decision, and they tensed and steeled themselves to fight the ally-turned-enemy. Anyone who was still leaning against the wall lifted themselves off of it-readying but not yet drawing their firearms—

But the old man upturned his mustached lips and smiled, unsettling the humans. For just a moment ago he was about to lose control—and now, like a dissipating fog to reveal a pleasant dawn, he was tranquil. _"I'm only joking, gentlemen. My loyalty is to Drachma."_

There were murmurs of approval as they began to ease back against the wall, or pace around, more relaxed. Wrath's sword gleamed under the lantern light.

_"Now tell me, who am I going to cut down?" _he asked with deadly intent.

The Drachman spies had gotten rattled slightly but regained their composure. The one who had clapped him on the shoulder handed the Homunculus photographs from newspaper clippings, hand-drawn renderings, and other written descriptions. They did not seem perturbed that they had no access to Central Command's official records—they had the most efficient information network in Amestris operating entirely outside of the channels of power.—For now.

The one who had given him the photographs must have been the leader of the disguised division, since he spoke again to him, and with proper authority-as if trying to regain it from the living weapon.

_"These are all the keystones of Fuhrer Grunman's administration.. If they are killed in secret, the government itself will surely fall."_

One of the spies dug his fingers in the pockets of his tight, Amestrian-made trousers, snorted and spit on the floor,

_"Short-sighted, these Amestrians—they don't have a line of succession, you've got generals biting each other's heads off to get to the top!"_

The other Drachmans murmured in agreement with their fellows. The warmer, but much damper air blew in through the metal slats of the warehouse, causing someone to sneeze. Wrath cast his eyes on the recent photographs for a few brief seconds, concretizing faces, builds, appearances, of the targets in his steel-trap of a brain, which snapped up each detail, minute and major. He handed back the photographs to the one in charge.

_"Why are you giving them back to me? You might need them."_

Wrath lifted his broad chin from the photographs and locked his unwavering stare on them-and the smoking superior, after a little delay, backed off respectfully, taking back the photos. With that, the Homunculus headed away from the lantern, the smell of the blood on his sword fading as he headed out the door to the warehouse.

The wick began to burn down as the dampness and the daylight was again shut out by the door. The superior relaxed and nodded his head in the darkness,

_"I think he got the message. But we have yet to account for the 100 Amestrians he killed at the border."_ He burned out the first cigarette, took another cigarette out of his shirt pocket, lit it, and smoked again, before snapping an order to his men, _"Notify our contacts in Central. I'm sure they will be able to foist the blame on some other country, so long as the Homunculus sticks to the plan."_


	12. Chapter 12

12

A white, half-shrouded moon lit part of the Presidential Mansion. A cool breeze flitted through the thick shrubbery just outside the gate. Outside the gate.

That's where his round, dark gaze was fixated upon.

_I'm sorry, Mother.._

Selim climbed out of his bed, lightly shedding the covers and sheets. He dressed quickly and silently, folding his unpatterned pajamas and placing them under his bed. He pulled on his shirt and short pants, leaving off his blue blazer. Socks and shoes went on last, and he grabbed a toy and a long, bunched cord from his shelf, and creeping, he inched towards the door, wincing at the creak it made.

He peered out into the darkness—nothing stirred, except for the rhythmic rocking of the clock in the hallway, which beat so loud in the darkness, overlapping with the high, fast beating of his heart. Selim bit his lower lip.

He entered the cool space of the hall, with its high ceiling, fine floorboards that didn't squeak, but every step made his heart leap into his throat that it might.

_Can't..wake..anyone..up._

The small boy feared his own thoughts, echoing so loud in his head that any minute he thought they might spill out his head and alert the butler, or Mother..

But—that view of what lay beyond the gate—

He wanted to see it. Even if it meant disobeying his mother.

_Just for a little bit. I'll go out walking and then return before anyone knows I am gone,_ the little boy thought, creeping through the darkness, withholding his own breath. Hold it…hold it…Running out of breath..running—

"Ee..-mph!"

Selim clapped his palms on his lips to silence himself, sweat trailing down his head and neck when he heard the butler shifting behind his door. He crouched on the floor instinctively, holding his arms over his head, his eyes flicking in front and back of him. He gulped—but shook his head, and with it any doubt he let aside.

_I plotted this route over and over again during the daytime. This darkness won't stop me._

The child felt his way up the stairs, the green carpet, not visible in this absence of light, shuffling under his shoes. He practically crawled up the stairs, bearing the uncomfortable feeling of knocking his arms and legs on the steps, but it was the best way to muffle the noise from his soles.

Step by step, Selim ascended the stairway in total darkness, a toy in his short pants pocket being especially loud on the steps. He reached the top of the staircase, feeling the floor level under him once again.

_Right above the door is a walkway leading to a window. If I can just get to it… canl make it..._

Selim wormed as best as he could across the floor across the floor, catching a sleeve on a chink in the wood. He went onward through the darkness, his heart pulsing in his chest as he passed his mother's open room. He could hear her snores and crept with extra caution, moving his body forward with his length of cord and in furtive twitches, sweating more and more with every inch.

The child stretched out his clammy hand to feel that glass—the window—

_Just..a little further.._

After what seemed like years, the boy's fingers squeaked on the glass, leaving sweaty prints. A relieved smile lifted on his face in the darkness. He unlatched the window and pushed it open, and flung the toy as far as he could. He waited to see where it fell—right beyond the gate.

"Hey—what is that?"

Selim smiled, priding in his own achievement, but steeled himself. He still had a long way to go. He unwound the cord from his pocket and coiled the end around the banister, double-and-triple knotted it, and threw the rest of it down. He tested it with several tugs, squeezed in between the holes in the banister, wrapped his legs and hands around it, and slid down, holding his breath at the sudden feel of his heart falling up into his throat.

He almost did not catch a yelp as he slid down, feeling the air rush around him for a few terrifying seconds before his feet hit the floor. He ran to the doors and, straining silently, he yanked the handle, pulling the door open wide enough for him to slip through.

Selim's eyes adjusted to the light from the lamps as he hurried out onto the shining porch.

"Hey, I found it! It was just a toy."

The boy's heart pounded harder in his chest as he took off down the steps leading to the doors and ran at full-tilt between the high columns, that looked more foreign and imposing because he was running, running away from the servants, who were climbing over the gate from outside. Selim sped frantically past the columns, breathing hard and gasping at every hurried step—even after having gotten rid of the rope and toy, he just felt like he couldn't run fast enough….

Light-headed, he jumped off the top of the three-step stair and hit the grass, grunting at the impact. When he recovered and got to his feet, one of the guards cried,

"The door's open!"

Selim clenched his teeth, tempted to look back to see if they were already after him, but squeezed his eyes shut and headed forward through the grass. He crawled into the bushes and retrieved one, two, three, four, five, six—they turned out to be twenty life-sized stuffed dolls.

_"Is there anything you'd like me to get you from the toy store, Selim?"_

_"Yes, Mother. Could you get me twenty dolls? The Big N' Fat kind that has a lot of stuffing?"_

_"Oh, my—twenty? What would you ever use those for?"_

_"Um…I could use them to play pretend..! Like I do with the train-!"_

_"Alright, dear. I'll get you the dolls."_

He had spent days figuring out how many dolls stacked up onto each other would equal his height, how many more would exceed the height of the gate, and how many more he would need to set down to step down once he had gotten to the top of the gate.

He pulled out five at a time and stacked them in front of the gate, his pulse hammering with exhilaration and fear. They were soft so they did not make noise, but hard enough that he could step on them without falling off. He had tested this prior, in his room, stacking all of them on top at once.

_No reason why it won't work now._

The child grabbed another five, set them down, and then another, and set them down, until he had gathered all twenty. He grabbed the rest in his arms, holding two of the dolls between his teeth, that were shaking from the effort. The child, almost falling with the massive amount of dolls in his hands, trembling from their immense weight, climbed up the five dolls, and then, once there, let go of the one in his teeth and stepped up on it. He did the same thing, stacking one down, and stepping up on it. And then again, finding his line of set climbing higher to the top of the fence.

Until he could see over it. He dropped the first doll over the fence, and the second one—he had accounted for the chance that the doll would bounce off the other one by placing an adhesive on it. Something called eeepahhxy—raisin—resin. It had taken him many days to mix it just right, but his efforts and patience had without a doubt paid off. The second one stuck to the first one, and as he dropped the dolls he made a stairway for himself on the other side-

"Master Selim! What are you doing…? Master Selim, get down!"

The boy nearly froze with fear—but kept his composure and threw down all of the dolls except one. No time—he swung his leg over the fence and scampered down his doll-ladder,

He took his first inhale of the air outside the Presidential Manor. And without looking back, Selim fled into the night.


End file.
